


meet me halfway

by ShowMeAHero



Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bewildering eBay Purchases, Canon-Typical Violence, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Jewish Richie Tozier, Love Confessions, M/M, Mike Denbrough, Necromancy, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resurrection, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 01:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20667038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: “Richie,” Mike says sharply. “Who are you with? Why are you in Derry?”“Tell him,” Eddie whispers again.“Is that Eddie?” Mike asks.“Tell him, Richie,” Eddie says again, louder.“Jesus Christ,” Mike says, and Richie snaps, throwing his phone hard at the kitchen wall opposite them. The back smashes and the battery falls into a bowl soaking in the sink. There’s a beat of silence where Eddie and Richie stare at the battery floating in the soapy water.“Good work, Kobe,” Eddie says.





	meet me halfway

**Author's Note:**

> A post-IT Chapter Two (2019) fix-it fic. This was originally intended to be way shorter, but you know what they say about the road to hell. Suddenly you're at 10,000 words and fuck your job, right? You've got fanfiction to write.
> 
> For reference, I am also gay, and I often call myself "gay," "homo," and "queer." I'm certain Richie would, too, but if that bothers you, know that's in here.
> 
> Title taken from ["Honest Man"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dIFed5a9jBQ) by Ben Platt.

Mike’s sitting on the beach in Florida, scrolling through Facebook on his phone, when an article catches his eye. He scrolls back up to it and realizes that the picture accompanying the article is a picture of Richie. The headline reads “Where the F*** did Trashmo…” and he has to click to see the rest. He hesitates, looking up from his phone and out over the ocean. The waves are gently lapping at the shore. There are seagulls crying in the distance. Paradise.

He looks back down and clicks the article. 

> **_Where the F*** did Trashmouth Go?_ **
> 
> _ Comedian Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier has apparently vanished off the planet? Much like Richard Simmons before him, people noticed slightly too late that Trashmouth had all but disappeared off the face of the earth. Did he return to the egg he hatched fro— _

Mike stops reading. He locks his phone and puts it screen-down on his lap. Takes a deep, deep breath. Shuts his eyes. When he opens his eyes, the same ocean is still lapping at the shore. He hears the same seagulls squawking over a French fry thrown at them by a child. He picks his phone up again and dials Richie’s number.

* * *

“What?” Richie says. Eddie smacks at his hand, and Richie smacks back. “No, no, I’m not dead. Why?”

“There’s an article on BuzzFeed that says you vanished off the face of the earth,” Mike says on the other end of the phone. Eddie tugs on Richie’s sleeve, and Richie pulls it out of his grasp, waving him away. Eddie flips him off and walks away. “Where the hell are you?”

“I’m, uhh—” Richie says. Eddie makes a vulgar and complicated motion with his hands and his hips. “—fucking your… mom.” Eddie gives him a thumbs-up. Richie gives him a thumbs-down back.

“Ha-ha, Richie.” Mike’s voice crackles on the other end, like his connection’s bad. “Are you in Derry?” Richie pauses just a bit too long. _ “Richie. _ Richie, _ why?” _

“Fucking his mom,” Eddie whispers. Richie tries to duck into the kitchen, but Eddie just follows him, trailing after him like a duckling. It’s _ embarrassing. _Richie shoos him away, but he doesn’t move, just keeps watching him.

“I—”

“Tell him you were fucking his mom,” Eddie hisses.

“His mom is dead, asshole,” Richie hisses back, and has to beat back the instinct to throw his phone at the wall once he realizes what he’s done.

“Who are you talking to?” Mike demands. “Richie, who’s there with you?”

Richie and Eddie stare at each other, wide-eyed. Eddie moves first, mouthing, “Tell him. _ Tell him—” _until Richie smacks his arm and he shoves him away.

“Richie,” Mike says sharply. “Who are you with? Why are you in Derry?”

“Tell him,” Eddie whispers again.

“Is that Eddie?” Mike asks.

“Tell him, Richie,” Eddie says again, louder.

“Jesus Christ,” Mike says, and Richie snaps, throwing his phone hard at the kitchen wall opposite them. The back smashes and the battery falls into a bowl soaking in the sink. There’s a beat of silence where Eddie and Richie stare at the battery floating in the soapy water.

“Good work, Kobe,” Eddie says, and Richie yanks him down into a headlock, wrestling him onto his back on the kitchen tile.

* * *

It’s not that Richie _ meant _ to resurrect Eddie. He didn’t believe in the ritual, _ genuinely, _ he thought it was a whole crock of bullshit. He thought, no fucking _ way _. It’s gone, and everything that came with all of It was gone, too. But—

_ But. _ The last time, the ritual _ had _ worked. Sort of. So. Maybe, just— _ Maybe— _

But.

He had gotten the book from the remnants of the library, from the stacks Mike had kept heaped messily in his attic. He was digging through the piles when one of the towers fell, the heaviest book on top falling to slam into his temple.

“Mother_fucker,” _he had cursed, fingers probing the lump at his hairline as he struggled to stand in the mess of books. He found the book that felled him; it had a bubbling potion embedded on the front in shimmering emerald material, and he felt like magnets pulled him towards it amongst hundreds of spilled books. He had turned it over and found only more black leather on the back, so he thumbed the book open to look for a title page.

_ “Necromancy,” _he had read, the only word on the first page. The pages were brittle, so he gave the book a shake. Something had rustled inside the pages, and he flipped through them until he found a small, dried laurel wreath pressed at the start of the seventh chapter. He peeled the wreath out to read the chapter title underneath: “‘The Necromancer Summons His Lover.’”

Richie had sighed out loud, then looked up at the crumbling ceiling of the library. “I’m sorry, was _ literally _ hitting me over the head with this book not _ enough _ of a sign?” He had rubbed at his temple again, muttering, “Jesus _ Christ, _I’ve seen Coke product placements less obvious than this.”

* * *

Richie thumbs through the book again now. It’s far more worn today than it was that day in the library, and, being honest, it was looking pretty fucking war-torn already. He’s got his feet kicked up on the coffee table in front of the couch; he’d settled in the corner, actually comfortable, before Eddie wormed his way in and shoved his head in Richie’s lap. Richie opened the book up on top of his face, but Eddie fell asleep there anyways. He was a heavy sleeper, now. Richie wasn’t sure if that was new; he was always a lighter sleeper when they were kids.

He scratches at the faded chapter title. “The Necromancer Summons His Lover,” written in black ink faded grey. He picks at the edge of the _ v _ in _ lover. _

“Quit moving the book,” Eddie mutters. Richie lifts the book to look at his face underneath; his eyes are still closed.

“The fuck you want?” he asks. Eddie snaps his teeth at him, then grins, opening his eyes. Richie drops the book back on his face, and Eddie makes to fling it to the floor before Richie catches it and drops it down on the armchair next to them. Eddie heaves a sigh, turning his face into Richie’s belly, yawning. Richie drops his hand into Eddie’s hair and scratches along his scalp.

“We’re going to have to leave this house eventually, you know,” Eddie murmurs, voice muffled by Richie’s shirt. Richie lightly pulls at his hair so he can look at his face.

"I know we already got your death certificate reversed," Richie says, because that had been his first order of business once Eddie could talk again, and one of the only things he left the house for, to go and lie at City Hall. He told them he'd faked his death and Richie hadn't known, which is why he had the death certificate at all. They'd raised eyebrows, but Eddie was standing _right there, _so. They couldn't say much. "But, fucking, I don't _know. _What am I gonna _say _to everyone? Like, 'Ignore the fact that _ I’m _ the one who told you six months ago that Eddie Kaspbrak was dead, he’s actually just fine and I’ve waited until now to tell you, sorry,’ people will _ love _that—”

“Jesus Christ, Trashmouth, shut the fuck up for once and use your brain,” Eddie says. He props his head up on his hand, elbow digging into Richie’s thigh. Richie swats at him, but Eddie just swats him back. “People are starting to notice you’re missing. _Mike _has noticed you’re missing. Mike was willing to get us all back to Derry to kill the fucking clown, he’s gonna be _more _than willing to haul everyone back to Derry just to find out what _your _sorry ass is hiding from him.”

Richie stares down at him, then flicks him in the center of his forehead. Eddie smacks him away again, then grabs his hand, settling. There's an ache, deep in Richie's chest. He doesn't want to break this bubble. He wants to protect Eddie a little bit longer, but he knows he can't. He _knows _that. It's just _hard._

“They’re going to come,” Eddie says. Richie shuts his eyes. Their hands settle on Eddie’s chest. “What’re you going to tell them when they do?”

Richie doesn’t open his eyes, just makes himself relax, Eddie’s weight a reassuring warmth holding him down to Earth. He sighs.

* * *

Chapter seven, “The Necromancer Summons His Lover,” had started with the story of Erictho. She was a witch who revived a battlefield corpse in some ancient Roman texts and made some magic necromancy potion with snakeskin and hyena flesh and rabid dog foam that she poured into the open corpse or some shit, and he came back to life. It goes on to talk about the ancient Persians, the Greeks, the Romans; the magicians, the sorcerers, the witches; the teachers, the mausoleums, the churches. The Catholic Church condemned it, the Witchcraft Act outlawed it, but nobody _ understood _it.

Only lovers.

Or so said the chapter.

_ This is not a party trick, _ the book had warned. _ This is your life and the life of your lover. You will do the impossible if you just— _

—and here Richie couldn’t help but snort—

_ —believe. _

The chapter then went into the instructions. Wear an article of the dead person’s clothing. Check; he had had Eddie’s jacket in his car, still, when they’d left for the house. He’d slipped it on, found it didn’t fit, and left it on anyways. He was supposed to eat black bread, so he got himself Russian black bread and toasted it. The book told him to wait for a _ magical mood _ before begin the conjuring of the spirit, and that he had to burn hemlock, mandrake, and opium at a place of significance to the caster in order to conjure the spirit _ correctly. _Opium would certainly give him a magical fucking mood if he burned that in the house.

Richie had sighed and gotten into his car.

His gains had been ill-gotten; he’d stolen most of what he needed. Fuck, nobody sold fucking _ opium _ anymore, he wasn’t living in a fucking Victorian-era drug den. He had driven all the shit out to the bridge with the book, parked sideways and helter-skelter to shield himself if a car came along, even though he had done this at night specifically to _ avoid _ that. He’d taken his duffel bag out of the car and dumped it next to their initials carved into the wood of the bridge.

The incantations were complicated. They were all specifically dealing with what the book called _ the evocation of the spirits of the dead, _ and Richie didn’t even have a fucking _ body _ to work with. At the thought of that, of Eddie’s fucking dead _ body _, his heart had started to race, his palms had started to sweat.

“Jesus, Tozier, what the fuck is wrong with you,” he had muttered to himself, pulling out his pocketknife. Snapping it open, he had used it to slice a lock of his own hair off. He dumped it in his little travel bowl, then held out his palm, slicing it diagonally across the place his scar no longer was. His skin parted easily, and he hissed through his teeth as he turned his hand over, letting his blood spill into the bowl.

_ When summoning your lover, _ the book had told him, and Richie pretended he didn’t flinch, _ pour your affection into your power. Summon them with love. They have been dead a very long time, and no time at all. They hold your secrets, and you hold theirs. _

Richie held his breath, blood flow slowing to one drip at a time. The last drop had fallen, and the plus sign in his carving, _ R + E, _ began to glow. A crossroads, and the compass is fucking _ glowing, _an addition and a sunrise, shining. The forest had shone, too, shimmering black leaves around him; the river below had become a grave. The watch on his clock ticked closer and closer to one in the morning; he’d been in Derry for nine nights before this night, preparing.

The songs were confusing; he sang them anyways, as off-key and sloppy as they sounded coming from his mouth as he dumped grape juice in the bowl. He kept his eyes down on the bowl as he mixed in crumbs of the black bread, foam of a rabid dog (fuck eBay, but also, _ fuck, _eBay?), snakeskin, hyena flesh. The opium and hemlock and mandrake were in their own separate container, and Richie had gingerly added them, careful not to touch them. He had poured in a sweet oil he had gotten from the Romanian market down the road and kept reciting the chants and songs. He had pulled his sleeve over one hand and slowly stirred the contents of the bowl, trying not to gag as he kept chanting, glancing down at the book now and then to make sure he was still on track.

If Eddie had been around to see this, he would have roasted Richie within an inch of his life, and Richie would have deserved it. It was one in the fucking _ morning, _and there he had been, lighting a match and dropping it into his travel bowl.

“I disturb you, Edward Kaspbrak,” Richie had said then, before he added, “Sorry, man. Nothing personal. Just not your time yet, you square.”

The book had flipped closed, then snapped back open again, pages flying and rustling as if caught in a windstorm. Richie sighed, then stuck his bloody hand into the flames and through the contents of the bowl, screaming as he drew out a fistful of the dark-red slurry inside and slammed it on the initials carved into the wood.

For a moment, nothing had happened.

And then, before he understood what was happening, he had heard a splash in the water below, and a scream that wasn’t his, and he was diving into the water, trying to find whatever or whoever was down there.

He had started sobbing when he realized it was Eddie.

It was the _ corpse _ of Eddie, something that may have once _ been _Eddie but was, at this point, a disgusting mess falling apart in the water. He had begun to then stitch up right before Richie’s eyes. The two of them had been submerged underwater, Richie’s eyes stinging with water in them and without his glasses over them, but he had made himself watch Eddie’s body slide together in chunks, flesh knitting together and shivering from a decaying grey into a blood-bright red flush, hair coming back into color and haloing his head in the current, eyes sliding back into their sockets.

In no time at all, he had been Eddie again, a naked body floating in the water.

Then, he gasped, and began to choke on the water he had inhaled.

Richie had started swimming at him, kicking as hard as he could to get to Eddie and yank him above the water. Eddie was clinging desperately to him, gasping for air, struggling to breathe, and Richie had towed him to the shore, heart pounding in his chest as he dragged Eddie up onto the bank. He fell onto his back, catching his breath, just for a moment, before he had rolled over onto Eddie and started slamming on his chest.

“Fucking _ breathe, _ Eddie, Jesus _ Christ,” _ he said, feeling a rib crack under his hands, and water trickled out of Eddie’s mouth as he wheezed in a thin, reedy breath. Richie sobbed, sealing their mouths together and breathing for him, hand closed over Eddie’s nose, and Eddie had gasped into his mouth, wordless, breathing, dead, _ alive. _

* * *

“I had no fucking _ idea _it was going to work,” Richie shouts, in lieu of greeting. Mike stares at him from the other side of the front door, fist still half-raised in mid-air to knock on the door.

“Richie, what did—”

“The stupid ritual!” Richie says. He grabs Mike by the sleeve and yanks him inside, shutting the door and locking it behind him. He looks out the window beside the door, twitching the curtain aside to peer around the yard before he tugs it shut again.

“What’s making you so paranoid?” Mike asks. “What ritual? What are you—”

There’s a creak of floorboards on the other side of the room, and Mike whirls around.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Ta-da,” Richie says. He backs up, motioning to Eddie beside him. “Stupid ritual worked on accident.”

“Yeah, keep repeating that you wish I was still dead, that feels good,” Eddie says. He looks at Mike, then shrugs somewhat sheepishly, like he’s saying, _ What can you do? _

“Eddie,” Mike finally manages.

“Hey, Mikey,” Eddie says. Mike stumbles forward one step, then another; once he’s moving, he’s almost running until he slams into Eddie, holding him tight and sobbing into his hair. He feels so small in his arms, smaller than the seven inches of difference in their height. He feels underweight, thin and boney. Mike holds him tighter; Eddie pats him on the back, and Richie claps his hand down on his shoulder.

“Yeah, I did pretty much the same thing,” Richie tells him. “More hysteria, though. I did miss you the most, you know, Eddie. These guys, they _ barely _ mourned you—”

“How?” Mike asks, cutting off Richie’s riffing. “What ritual did you do?” He pulls back, actually taking the time to look into Eddie’s eyes, to feel for his pulse in his neck. He seems to be just as alive as he was before— Well, before he died. Mike’s hands twitch towards Eddie’s chest, and he seems to understand what Mike’s looking for. He grabs the hem of his shirt — and, looking at it, it’s clearly not his, too long in the torso and the arms, obviously one of Richie’s shirts — and tugs it up and over his head.

There’s a scar in the center of his chest, a huge, round hole that was obviously sewed up with hasty, jagged stitches. Mike reaches out tentatively, presses his fingertips to the scar. Eddie feels warm underneath his hand.

“Not my best work, but it’ll keep him in one piece,” Richie comments, folding his arms across his chest and studying his handiwork on Eddie’s body. “He’s certainly looked worse.”

“Go fuck yourself, Trashmouth,” Eddie says, grinning. Mike glances between the two of them, feeling… disconnected. Like he was missing something important.

“What happened?” he asks again. Eddie looks to Richie again, and Richie sighs.

“Sit,” Richie says. “It’s a long, _ long _motherfucking story.”

* * *

Eddie was gasping, digging his face into the grass and sand of the river’s shore. Richie had to turn him onto his back again, holding his head in place.

“Eddie, Eddie, stop,” Richie said, and Eddie had stopped, looking up at Richie, blinking water out of his eyes. Richie felt for Eddie’s pulse in his throat, and his stomach ached when he found it, throbbing through his veins. He lifted his wrist and found his pulse there, too, then did the same with the other wrist. Then, he moved his hands to Eddie’s chest to feel his heart with his palm, and his blood turned to ice.

“Fuck,” Richie hissed. He looked over his shoulder up at the bridge, then back down at Eddie, who was starting to poke at his chest, at the blood sluggishly oozing out of the hole through his center. Richie smacked his hands away, then hefted him up into his arms in a bridal carry. Eddie just groaned, burying his face in Richie’s shirt, wet hair dripping down his bare back.

“Stay with me, Eduardo, come on, you’re fine,” Richie said. He ran as best as he could up the incline of the hill, stumbling on rocks and roots until he got back up to the road and could sprint down the asphalt to the bridge. He set Eddie down behind the parked car, next to his bowl and book and all the other shit he brought for the stupid, _ beautiful _necromancy ritual.

“Don’t move,” Richie said, and Eddie rolled his eyes, putting his hands up over the hole in his chest. “Oh, good, you’re still alive enough to be a fucking jackass.”

Eddie glared at him, then started coughing again, so Richie ran back around the car and climbed in through the open driver’s side window, digging his first aid kit out from under the seat. He could still hear Eddie coughing, wet, heaving sounds, and his wet fingers slipped on the kit. He slammed his fist into the seat, then took a second to catch his breath and gather himself. Inhaling deeply, he grabbed the kit again, then slid back out through the window and returned to Eddie.

“Hey, I’m right here, you’re alright,” Richie told him. He peeled Eddie’s hands away from the hole in his chest, then flipped the box open. He pulled out the alcohol rinse and held Eddie down with one arm across his shoulders and collarbone. “This is gonna hurt, Eds, okay? Stay with me, don’t move.”

He squeezed the bottle, and the alcohol shot out in a thin stream onto Eddie’s open wound, and he jerked, eyes squeezing shut as he groaned through his clenched teeth. Richie put his head down until their foreheads touched.

“I’m right here, Eddie, I’m here,” he kept repeating, cleaning the wound out until he felt it was as good as it was gonna get. He could see through Eddie’s chest to the other side of him, and his stomach flipped. He exhaled slowly through his mouth, then took up the needle and thread from inside the first aid kit.

“Don’t move, Eddie,” Richie said. Eddie’s eyes opened and landed on the needle, and he started to squirm, trying to escape Richie’s hold. Richie dropped the shit back into the box and pulled Eddie in, holding him tightly until he started to settle. His head fell against Richie’s, face turning down to tuck into his throat. Richie stroked his hair back.

“I’m right here,” Richie said again. Eddie groaned, then moved back, leaning against the side of the bridge again. Richie grabbed the needle and thread again. “Shut your eyes, Eds, I’ve got this. You’re gonna be fine.”

Eddie tipped his head to the side, eyes squinting almost-closed as Richie set to work. Eddie’s hands balled up into fists, nails digging into his palms and cutting tiny crescent-shaped marks into his flesh. His hands started to trickle blood, and just glancing down at it and seeing that sign of life was enough to make Richie’s heart start pounding. He stopped, steadied himself and his shaking hands, and went back to work again.

Eddie’s brow remained furrowed, and he kept making stilted half-sounds, deep in this throat, but he remained relatively motionless. He twitched now and then, and Richie would stroke his hair again, and he would settle. It took time, and effort, but Richie finished the front and was able to shuffle Eddie around so he could work on stitching up his back, too. Eddie bowed his head, fists clenched, and let him work, sobbing quietly. Richie pretended not to notice.

When Richie finished, he cleaned both sides off again, and Eddie just shut his eyes, tipping his head back and letting tears drip off the point of his chin. Richie wrapped his chest in pads and gauze and bandages and tape, holding him together as best as he could, and then, Eddie grunted. Richie looked up at him.

“What is it?” Richie asked. Eddie shook his head, then motioned to his throat, then his head, rubbing at his forehead. “Shit. You can’t talk. _ Shit—” _

“Mm.” Eddie pointed backwards, to the glowing _ R+E _carved into the bridge. The golden shine of it seemed to be mocking Richie as he looked at it. “Mm?”

“Mother_fucker,” _Richie said, with meaning. Eddie’s brow furrowed, and then Richie scrambled away from him, hauling himself up over the railing of the bridge and vomiting into the river below. He felt Eddie’s fingers wrap around his ankle, and he threw up again, gasping.

* * *

“Do you still have the book?” Mike demands, and Richie digs under the sofa for only a moment before pulling a book out. Mike grabs it and starts flipping through it. “Jesus Christ. I remember this. I didn’t think to try anything in it, I didn’t think it would work—” He stops at chapter seven. He pauses, rereading the title for the second time, then again. “You said this was the one you used?”

Richie sighs, a heavy, dramatic sound, and stands. “Don’t make a big deal out of it, Mikey. We’ve already talked about it.”

Mike glances to Eddie, who just shrugs again, leaning back on the sofa and stretching his legs out into the space Richie’s just vacated.

“You know we have to tell the rest of them,” Mike says, and then a thought strikes him. He twists around to look at Richie behind him. “Stan. Richie, we can—”

“We can’t,” Richie says. He doesn’t look up. The springs in the couch cushions creak as Eddie stands, and he goes to Richie, ducking down so he can catch his eye. Richie looks away.

“He tried,” Eddie tells Mike. Mike’s brow furrows. “It doesn’t work. It would have to be his wife, and she—”

“She wasn’t in love with him anymore,” Richie says. His hands twitch into fists, and he looks, for a moment, like he’s going to punch the wall. Eddie reaches out and takes his hands, smoothes out his fingers. Mike stands from the armchair. “It didn’t work.”

“What happened?” Mike asks. Eddie’s thumb strokes over the back of Richie’s hand, and they look at each other for a long moment.

“He wasn’t himself,” Richie says, finally. “He wasn’t— right. In the head. He wasn’t Stan.”

“What was he?” Mike asks.

“I don’t know, Mike, the ghost of Frank_ fucking _ Sinatra,” Richie snaps. “He was still _ dead, _ okay? He was walking and moving but his heart wasn’t _ fucking _ beating. He wasn’t breathing or anything. He tried to—” Richie swallows, looks away. “Fucker. It doesn’t matter. It didn’t work, we can’t— Stan’s gone. He wasn’t— The river was—” He stops, exhales shakily. Eddie keeps stroking the back of Richie’s hand with his thumb.

“He acted like Stan,” Eddie explains, “for a little while. But he wasn’t. He came home with us and tried to kill us both. Richie had to—”

“Stop,” Richie interrupts. “Jesus, a man’s not allowed his secrets? Some fucking friends you two are.”

“He killed it,” Eddie continues. Mike blanches. “It wasn’t Stan, not anymore. Just Stan’s body.”

“Stop,” Richie says again, but it’s softer this time, sadder. Eddie takes a step closer, and Richie turns his face into Eddie’s hair, closing his eyes. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” Mike says, and he means it, deeply. This is too much, too much for any of them, certainly too much for _ one _of them to deal with alone. “How long— I mean. When—”

“Six months for Eddie,” Richie says, voice muffled slightly by Eddie’s hair and skin. Richie lifts his head. “Only a little less for Stan. I tried only a couple days after.”

“You couldn’t talk?” Mike asks, steering the conversation away from Stan, looking to Eddie instead. Eddie keeps holding Richie’s hand, but he looks up to Mike.

“I couldn’t talk or walk or remember much of anything,” Eddie tells him. “I thought I was still dead, to be honest. I didn’t really understand.”

Mike looks at Richie again, but Richie’s still looking at the wall, not at either of them. His fingers twitch on Eddie’s hand, squeezing it tighter, the only indication that he’s even listening to them.

“He retaught me everything,” Eddie says. “How to walk, how to feed myself, how to speak.”

“My greatest regret,” Richie chimes in. Eddie flicks at his cheek with his free hand, and Richie swats him away.

“Where’s your wife?” Mike asks, and instantly regrets it, but Eddie doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Myra doesn’t know,” Eddie says, “and she won’t.”

Mike’s eyes flick up to Richie’s face, and Richie’s already looking back at him when he does. The two of them make eye contact, lock into each other.

“She’ll find out eventually,” Mike says. Eddie shakes his head.

“She won’t,” he says again. “I’m not going back there. We’re— I don’t know. Staying here, maybe. Going back to New York—”

“We don’t—”

“We _ do—” _

“Your whole life was in New York—”

_ “Your _whole life was in _Los Angeles—”_

“Wait, wait, stop,” Mike interrupts. “Does anyone else know about this?” The look that Eddie and Richie exchange tells Mike all he needs to know, and he groans. _ “Guys. _How the hell have you made it this far?”

“Nobody noticed I was gone,” Richie says, and it’s weirdly sad. “Or, well, I guess, nobody _had_ noticed before you.”

“I saw it on Facebook.”

“Nice,” Richie says. “Didn’t even notice on your own. Too busy kissing Bill on the mouth?”

“Really?” Eddie asks.

“Chill out, Eds,” Richie tells him. “It’s okay, I can say it, I’m a homo.”

“Jesus,” Eddie laughs, looking away. He catches Mike’s eye again. “I’ll tell her eventually. Once she’s— I don’t know. I was gonna say _ healed, _ but to be honest, I’m not sure she isn’t thrilled that I’m gone.”

“And what the fuck is this?” Mike asks, motioning to them. “You can’t just expect me _ not _to ask, not after Ben took us all out to dinner to tell us he was dating Beverly.” Mike pauses, then frowns. “You didn’t come then, either.”

“No shit,” Richie says. “I’ve been holed up in this place teaching Eddie Spaghetti here how to walk and talk again like he was a newborn baby.”

“Don’t be weird,” Eddie tells him. He looks to Mike. “It was basically like I was a stroke patient or something. According to the websites this idiot used, anyways.”

“What’s WebMD for if not teaching your reanimated friend how to wipe his own ass again?” Richie asks. Eddie smacks his arm, and Richie shoves him back before yanking him in with an arm around his neck, tugging him into a headlock and kissing the crown of his head.

“When did this start?” Mike asks. Eddie looks up at Richie, shoving them apart again. Richie shrugs.

“The eighties,” Richie says. Eddie’s face flushes, and he glances away, very deliberately not-smiling. “Well, I mean, we were born _six months _apart, so, seventy-six.”

“You’re such a freak,” Eddie tells him.

“Baby face.”

_"Six months _older than me does _not_ make me a baby.”

“Oh, but when we were ten, it was enough to make you think you were gonna end up so much hotter and better than me—”

“—I _ am _better than you—”

“Jesus Christ,” Mike interrupts. “You’re insufferable. I didn’t know it could get worse. _ How _did you make it worse?”

Eddie glances to Richie. Richie groans.

* * *

Once Eddie started walking and talking like a functional adult man again, he also started insisting he could be taken outside again. Richie wouldn’t even entertain the idea the first couple of times he suggested it, but Eddie started to get stir-crazy, pacing the house and cleaning obsessively. Everything was in perfect alignment, _ all the time. _If Richie knocked a magazine out of place on the table, Eddie nudged it back into place without a second thought. It had gotten progressively worse and worse until Richie had snapped.

“I think we should—”

“Yes, okay, fine, we’ll go for a walk or something, Jesus goddamn _ Christ, _ stop cleaning up all my _ shit,” _Richie snarled at him. Eddie stopped in the doorway to the living room, tin of hot chocolate powder in his hands, brow furrowed.

“I was gonna say ‘drink some cocoa and watch a movie,’ but yeah, sure, we can go for a walk,” Eddie says, turning around and flinging the tin back onto the kitchen counter before he runs to tug on his boots and jacket. Richie shoves his feet into his sneakers and follows Eddie outside into the evening air, a layer of frost crunching under their shoes as they headed for the sidewalk. Richie figured it would be a somewhat long walk, but he didn’t account for Eddie’s absolute wonder at the outside world. He stopped to take a closer look at blades of grass, puddles, animals, leaves. He seemed exhilarated.

Eddie had explained a little of what it had been like to be dead, because he only remembered a little of it. He said it seemed to have been only a blink of the eyes and somehow, an eternity, and that it was an endless unawareness, nonexistence, a lack of _ anything, _even himself. He said he didn’t even remember what he had been, or how to speak, or think, or move. Then, he was suddenly back in his body, sliding through mud in a million tiny pieces, re-emerging in the river, and then Richie was dragging him onto the shore...

...and that was it. He was back. That was all he remembered.

And so, the world seemed to thrill him all over again, like it was his first time seeing it — which, in a way, it almost was. Richie slung an arm across Eddie’s shoulders.

“Eddie my love, how is the sweet October air treating you?” Richie asked. Eddie reached up and squeezed his hand, and Richie’s heart flipped.

“I’ve missed it,” Eddie told him.

It took too long for Richie to realize where Eddie was leading him, but he’d been too distracted by Eddie’s distraction to recognize where they were until they were already standing at the crest of the hill overlooking the bridge.

“Oh, you motherfucker,” Richie had said. Eddie had shrugged Richie’s arm off and walked ahead of him, hands in the pocket of his jeans (too long and rolled up at the bottoms; he was still mostly wearing Richie’s clothes). Richie watched him for a moment, then jogged to catch up, his long legs getting him there in only a couple of strides.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Richie told him. “I carved it when we were kids.”

“When?” Eddie asked, stopping next to the section their initials were in, eyes scanning the many carvings, seeking theirs. Richie hesitated, looking down the road at the woods beyond the bridge. “Richie.”

“Since we were kids,” Richie told him. “Since we met. It’s not—”

“Richie,” Eddie interrupted him, eyes finally landing on their initials. They still looked fresh.

“And I came back,” Richie said. “After you died. And freshened it up a little bit. Y’know, in memoriam.”

Eddie had just looked down at their initials. Richie broke out into a cold sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. His hands started to shake the longer Eddie went without talking; it was so out of their ordinary to be silent, especially the more Eddie remembers and relearns. Eventually, Richie laughed nervously.

“Okay, you had your fun, let’s turn back,” Richie said. “The sun’s going down and I don’t need to have you die, I don’t know if I can get enough hyena flesh off the Internet to resurrect you a second time—”

“Is that all?” Eddie asked.

“Is _ what _all?” Richie asked in return.

“Is that all?” Eddie repeated. “‘In memoriam.’ Is that why you came back and carved it again? Because I was dead?”

Richie fell silent. When Eddie glanced back at him over his shoulder, he felt obligated to tell the truth. “That’s not all of it. Stop fishing, it’s embarrassing.”

“I just want you to be honest,” Eddie told him.

“Since fucking when?” Richie muttered. Eddie just kept waiting. Richie had sighed, looking away for a long moment before he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and shrugged. “So what? Fine, I’m a big old fucking homo and I have been since we were kids and I’ve had a fucking gay crush on you since the fucking eighties. Are you happy now, dipshit?”

Eddie just stared at him, turning around fully to look him in the eye, brow furrowing. “You still have a crush on me?”

“Jesus, we’re turning forty, I don’t have a fucking _ crush _ on you,” Richie told him. “I’m—” He stopped, bit down so hard on his lip that he drew blood, cursed, “Mother_fucker—” _

“You’re what?” Eddie had asked. Richie wiped the blood away from his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring at Eddie.

“I’m in fucking love with you,” Richie snapped. “There. Fine. Sorry, your stupid fucking homo friend couldn’t figure out how to keep it together, this is why I didn’t say anything when we were kids, motherfuck—”

Eddie walked up to Richie, caught his face between his hands, and Richie fell quiet, looking down at Eddie. The two of them were silent for only a moment.

“What are you doing, Eds?” Richie had whispered. Eddie shrugged.

“I always used to fucking hate when you called me Eds,” Eddie told him.

“You did?”

“No,” Eddie said, and then he’d kissed him, smearing blood on both of their mouths. Eddie pulled back, face wrinkled up in disgust, but Richie yanked him back in, holding his head in his hands and kissing him so hard Eddie involuntarily sighed. Richie pulled him closer, bowed his body under his own, held onto his hips and kissed him over and over again.

“What about Myra?” Richie asked, breathless, when he pulled back for air. Eddie pinched his neck. “Ow, motherfucker, what was that—”

“Don’t talk about my wife, Jesus,” Eddie snapped.

“Ex-wife.”

_ “Widow,” _Eddie corrected back. Richie’s face paled, and he looked away, and Eddie regretted speaking. “I’m not going back to her.”

Richie glanced down at him again, surprise obvious on his face. It made Eddie’s chest clench to see the shock and confusion. “You’re not?”

“Of course fucking not,” Eddie told him. “You kidding me? When I found out you weren’t married, I told her I wanted a divorce.”

“You didn’t,” Richie said.

“I did,” Eddie said, “you dipshit.”

Richie grabbed him and kissed him again, over and over, pressing him up against the railing of the bridge and pinning him there to kiss the breath out of him while water rushed underneath them. Eddie held onto Richie’s belt loops, let him lick into his mouth and kiss him, sighed when Richie took him into his arms and just held him close, shuddering apart under his hands.

* * *

“And _ that _was the horniest I’ve ever been,” Richie concludes, and Eddie smacks him in the chest. Richie swats him away.

“Don’t be crass, you motherfucking idiot,” Eddie says, and Richie rolls his eyes, taking his glasses off to clean on the hem of his shirt.

“What do you plan to do next?” Mike asks. The two of them look at each other again and, this time, don’t talk over each other or disagree. Richie motions to Mike with a minute jerk of his head, and Eddie tips his chin. Mike sighs. “Out loud, please.”

“Jealousy’s a bad look, Mikey,” Richie says. “We’re thinking of moving to New York. Not Queens, but… Brooklyn. Or Manhattan.”

“Mister Fancy Comedian wants to keep being famous or something,” Eddie adds, and Richie sighs. “They were gonna give him his own late night talk show or something before he decided to live in the woods like a hermit.”

“The offer still stands,” Richie tells them, and they both look at him in surprise. “My agent told me.”

“When?”

“Two months ago,” Richie says, and Eddie smacks his arm.

“And when the _ fuck _were you gonna tell me, you dipshit?” Eddie demands. Richie shrugs, and Eddie throws his hands up in frustration. “Jesus fucking Christ. Do you have a deadline? What do you want to do?”

Richie looks up at Mike. Mike raises an eyebrow.

“I was hoping that maybe Mike would tell everyone else and they’d all show up and we would get found out, so I wouldn’t have to tell people myself,” Richie admits. “It would’ve just been easier that way.”

Eddie reaches into Richie’s pocket and fishes out the shitty flip phone he'd gotten to replace the one he'd thrown at the wall, handing it over to him. Richie hesitates, then takes it.

“Call your agent,” Eddie instructs him, “then the Losers. You _ dumbass.” _

“Yes, _ Mom,” _Richie replies snidely, and Eddie tugs him down and kisses him. Mike looks away.

“Go make your calls,” Eddie tells him, “and _ behave,” _and Richie waves him off before leaving to make his calls in the kitchen. Eddie looks to Mike once he’s gone.

“I have to write this down,” Mike says, and Eddie laughs.

* * *

The first one to get there is Bill. Richie’s calls were purposefully vague, only saying that he’d done something big and he needed everyone to come back as soon as they could to help. Beverly and Ben are coming together, but they have to wait a day for some meeting Ben has to attend, so Bill gets there before they do, pounding on the door when Richie didn’t answer the doorbell right away. Richie skids across the living room floor, sliding on the hardwood in his socks as he tugs his underwear back up. He slips and slams into the door, groaning when his nose crunches. He pulls back, tipping his head and holding his hand to his nose as it starts to drip blood. He opens the door for Bill like that.

“Richie, what the f-f-fuck kind of a phone call was that?” Bill demands, the second the door opens. He didn’t even hesitate when he saw the blood trickling down his face and between his fingers. “You couldn’t have been more _ d-d-d-dickishly vague _if you tried, m-m-motherfucker.”

“Calm down, Big Bill, don’t get your cherry stem in a knot,” Richie says, voice muffled and nasal from his hand. He grabs his nose between his fingers and wrenches it back into place, groaning. “Fucking shit. Come in, Jesus, what’re you standing out there for?”

“What’d you do?” Bill asks, coming in past him. He comes to a sudden stop when he sees Mike on the couch, sitting at the very edge. “Mike? W-W-What the hell?”

“He called me,” Richie tells him. “I didn’t tell him first on purpose.”

“Tell him _ what?” _Bill demands.

“Hey, Billy,” Eddie says, and Bill whirls around. The blood drains from his face, and Richie takes a step towards Bill.

“Oh, God,” Bill says, voice just the wrong side of too soft, and he starts to crumple. Richie’s the first one there, sprinting forward just in time to catch Bill before he hit the floor. He lays him down, smacking him lightly on the cheek with the back of his hand.

“Hold on,” Eddie says, before grabbing Mike’s glass of water off the table and throwing it in Bill’s face. He gasps, eyes flying open, and knocks the glass out of Eddie’s hand, sending it smashing across the floor. The four of them just sit on the ground, then, chests heaving, watching each other closely.

“Fucking _ explain,” _Bill demands, still flat on his back, and Mike hauls him to his feet while Richie launches into his explanation all over again.

* * *

Beverly and Ben show up the next morning, bright and early. Well, four in the morning, actually, so it’s still dark out when they knock on the front door of the address Richie had texted them. They both wait a minute before Bev rings the doorbell, and it’s only a few moments after that that the door opens to reveal Mike, yawning, on the other side.

“Mike?” Ben asks, confused.

“Where’s Richie?” Beverly asks, abruptly terrified, and Mike motions them inside, still yawning.

“He’s down the hall,” Mike says. “Last door on the right. Just shake him, he’ll wake up. Careful, though, he might still sleep with a knife under his pillow.”

“Charming,” Ben comments, while Beverly frowns, setting her backpack down on the floor just inside the door. “Should we wait until he wakes up?”

“No, I want to talk to him now,” Bev says. She strides down the hall, Ben jogging to catch up, and opens the last door on the right, just like Mike told her. She sees Richie sprawled on his back in bed, sheets bunched around his waist and tangled up in his long legs, arms spread across the breadth of the bed. Beverly’s hands fly up over her mouth and she gasps wetly when she sees Eddie’s head on Richie’s chest, his arm wound around Richie’s middle, mouth open, snoring, breathing, _ alive. _

“What the _ fuck?” _ Ben exclaims, and Beverly jumps, unaware of him standing right behind her. Eddie leaps out of bed, and Richie’s right behind him, something flashing in his hand. He _ does _still sleep with a knife under his pillow, she realizes, as he squints at her blearily, holding the blade up, pointing slightly to the left of her.

“Rich, fuckhead, it’s just Bev and Ben,” Eddie says, and Beverly runs at him, gathering him up in her arms and sobbing into his bare shoulder. He hugs her in return, holding her tight and rubbing her back, and Ben comes up beside them, gathering them both up in his arms and hugging them together. He’s crying, too, Beverly realizes; his chest is shaking against her shoulder.

“Are you fucking naked?” Beverly asks in the next moment, and Eddie extricates himself from her in one smooth motion. Richie tosses a pair of shorts at him, and Eddie tugs them on while Richie wraps the bedsheet around his waist like a long, trailing skirt.

“It’s the middle of the fucking night in _ our _fucking bedroom, we’re allowed to be naked,” Richie snaps at them. “Jesus motherfucking Christ, did nobody teach you two dickheads manners? Like fucking knocking?”

“Are you _ really _going to stand there and lecture us about manners when Eddie’s standing right there?” Ben asks, and Richie shoves his glasses onto his face and glances to Eddie like he doesn’t understand the question.

“Eddie doesn’t have any manners, either,” Richie says, like that’s what Ben’s getting at, and Eddie throws one of the pillows at him. “Hey, it’s not my fault you’re rabid—”

“I _ meant _ that where the _ fuck _was this information when you called?” Ben interrupts, before the two of them can really get going. Beverly touches Eddie’s face, and he lets her, expression softening as he looks down at her.

“Are you okay?” Beverly asks. She means _ Are you alive? Are you really here? _but can’t manage to say it; luckily, it seems like Eddie understands anyways.

“Yeah,” he says. He holds out his wrist to her, and she can see his pulse jumping there, beneath his thin skin. She touches her fingertips to the blue threads of his veins anyways, and nearly melts with the relief and shock that pulses through her when she feels his heart pounding inside him. “It’s real, Bev. I’m here.”

“Stan—” Ben starts to say, and Richie drops the knife; it clatters to the ground with the sound of solid metal, a hard _ thud. _

“Stan’s gone,” Richie says, and Beverly takes Ben’s hand, squeezes it. They don’t push. Richie’s looking at the far wall, one hand still holding the sheet around his waist; a muscle in his jaw jumps as Beverly looks at him, his whole body tense and straining.

“We can talk in the morning,” Eddie says. “Go get some rest. Bill’s in one of the guest rooms, Mike’s on the couch so you can take the other guest room.”

“Oh, he— Shouldn’t’ve—” Beverly begins, but Ben squeezes her hand in return, and she stops.

“Thank you,” he says. “We’ll talk in the morning.” He eyes Eddie, scanning him just like Bev had. “You sure you’re good?”

“I’ll still be here when the sun’s up,” Eddie assures him. “Now, kindly fuck off so I can get back to sleep, please, thank you, I need at least eight hours a night.”

“God, take him with you,” Richie says to them, and Beverly hides a laugh when Eddie crawls across the bed to yank at Richie’s wrist so he can pinch him.

* * *

They’re back at Jade of the Orient that night for dinner. Finally, everybody is caught up; together, they’ve been able to piece together everything, and they all know the entire story. Eddie is alive again, he’s finally relearned everything, Stan can’t be saved, and they’re planning to move to Manhattan, together.

The _ together _ part seems to be more captivating to their friends than the _ alive again _ part, now that they’re over the initial shock of his return after half a year of him being dead (or, they _ thought _he was dead, while Richie was hiding him and regrowing him from scratch, like a seedling). Bill points his chopsticks at Richie halfway through the meal.

“Don’t think you two assholes are off the h-h-h-hook,” Bill threatens him. “When the fuck did this happen? Was this happening when we were kids?”

“Fucking no,” Richie says. “Obviously not.”

“What’s obvious about it?” Bill asks. “I didn’t even know you were g-g-gay, Trashmouth.”

Richie scowls at him, looking down into his ramen, stabbing viciously at the egg half amongst the noodles with his chopsticks in lieu of a response.

“I’m gay, too, if anyone cares about that,” Eddie adds, attempting to lighten the mood. It hadn’t bothered him tremendously as a kid; being interested in boys didn’t worry him half as much as the fear of the diseases those boys could give him if they kissed. He had had his priorities in order.

Richie was different, obviously. His sexuality had vexed him since he was small; he had always faced problems with it, bullying and beatings and worse, unable to shove it down enough for the inhabitants of Derry. He’d kept it close to his chest even after he’d left, never giving direct answers, never saying anything plain, never agreeing to any labels. After a while, people stopped asking.

Now, there’s just Eddie.

“It was only a couple months after I came back,” Eddie continues. “That we’ve been together.”

“So, what? Four months since then?” Ben asks, and Eddie nods.

“I’ve been in love with him since we were kids,” Richie adds, unexpectedly honest. Everyone stops to look at him instead of Eddie. “When we were thirteen. We—” He stops, looks away from them all to peer into his ramen instead, pushing the noodles around with his chopsticks. “It doesn’t matter _ when.” _

“Richie,” Eddie says, and Richie shakes his head. “Rich, c’mon.”

Richie looks up at him, and Eddie grins at him. Richie flicks broth off his chopsticks at him, but he smiles, too.

“I’m starting to feel a _ little _left out,” Bill comments. “Too b-b-b-b-bad we didn’t have more friends to pick from.”

“Still got Mike,” Eddie points out. “If you’re looking for someone to stick your—”

“Thanks for the offer on my behalf, Eddie,” Mike interrupts, “but maybe focus on what’s getting stuck up _ your _ass instead.”

Eddie’s face flushes. “Look, jackass—”

“Ah, family,” Richie says, reaching over his bowl to grab a fortune cookie from the center of the table. He hesitates before opening it, remembering the last time they had all been together at Jade of the Orient, but he knows It is gone, a bone-deep knowledge that has settled inside him since last summer. He cracks the fortune cookie open and pulls the slip of paper containing his fortune out.

“What’s it say?” Eddie asks, leaning over his arm to read the paper over his shoulder.

“‘Your mouth is always moving, but nobody is ever listening,’” Richie reads aloud. There’s a beat before Eddie busts out laughing, and Richie flicks him in the temple. Eddie grabs his own cookie and cracks it, slipping his fortune out.

“What’s yours say, dickwad?” Richie asks.

“‘You can make your own happiness,’” he reads. “‘He who seeks shall find.’” He looks up at Richie, and Richie’s heart thumps hard against his ribcage. Every now and then, he remembers seeing Eddie die, and remembers those weeks he spent mourning him, and considers how insanely fucking _ lucky _ he is to have Eddie back _ now, _ and how even more _ insanely fucking lucky _he is that Eddie wants him, too.

“Thanks for seeking,” Eddie says to him. It takes Richie a moment to remember the fortune, and he grins when he does, turning to put his elbow on the table and lean his cheek into it, looking at Eddie sideways.

“Time to make your own happiness, Eddie, my love,” Richie tells him, and it feels less teasing this time than it normally does when he says that. Eddie puts his hand under Richie’s chin and tilts it away from his palm, lifting his face and tipping it until they’re almost kissing.

“I’ve already started,” Eddie tells him, lips brushing Richie’s when he speaks. Richie smiles again.

“Don’t be such a cornball, you fucking homo,” Richie says, and Eddie kisses him for that, cupping Richie’s face in one hand and tilting his head to get a better angle on him. He reaches up, taking off Richie’s glasses, and Richie takes them before Eddie can smash them or drop them or some other stupid bullshit. He hears Bill whistle at them, and he extends one middle finger in his direction.

“Apologize to your mom for me,” Richie says the moment he and Eddie break apart, turning to Bill. “My deepest regret is that I wasn’t straight enough to fuck her properly.”

“Go fuck yourself, T-T-Trashmouth,” Bill says without heat, grinning at him. Richie leans back in his chair, letting his hand slip down to hold Eddie’s under the table.

“That’s no longer my job, bucko,” he says, and Eddie groans.

* * *

“I think that’s the last box,” Ben says, dropping the cardboard box of books on the floor in Richie and Eddie’s new living room. They ended up in Tribeca, because Richie’s a nighttime talk show host now and he’s apparently more famous than even Eddie understood, because he was shocked when he saw where the apartment Richie’s agent had found for them was. Walking _ into _it was even more bewildering; he felt like an imposter, intruding on someone else’s life.

“Richie, I don’t know,” Eddie says, not for the first time that day. Richie takes him by the shoulder, steers him away from their friends to the balcony. There’s no furniture out there yet, so he leans backwards against the railing, using his elbows on the rail to prop himself up, while Eddie faces forwards, looking out over the midday skyline of New York City. Richie tips his face into Eddie’s vision.

“Wanna share with the class?” Richie asks, and Eddie sighs. New York City looks different from here than it had from Queens, and he feels like he’s living a second life, entirely separate from his first. That Eddie Kaspbrak had died, and he stayed dead; _ this _Eddie Kaspbrak was finally living the life he wanted to live. Two entirely different men, in his mind. Richie waited patiently while he sorted through his thoughts.

“This doesn’t feel real,” Eddie settles on. Richie nods, looking off to the side as he gathers his own thoughts, processing what Eddie’s said.

“I get that,” Richie says. “It’s like… my life has been segmented into two sections.”

“Exactly!” Eddie exclaims.

“I feel like I lived an entirely different life, and now I’ve been dropped in the middle of this one,” Richie continues, and Eddie nods, leaning into him. Richie slides one arm in between Eddie’s arms, plants his hand between Eddie’s on the railing so they’re half-on top of each other, forcing Eddie to make eye contact with him. “It doesn’t feel right. I feel like we’re going to get another call, or I’m going to wake up and you’ll be—” He stops, but doesn’t look away, to his credit. Just blinks, then sighs, looking down at Eddie’s mouth. “I don’t want to lose this. It seems…”

“Too good to be true,” Eddie finishes, and Richie nods. Eddie tips his head up, and Richie takes the invitation for what it is, kissing him on the forehead before he slots their mouths together. One of Eddie’s hands comes up, cupping Richie’s face, and Richie pulls back.

“Too good to be true,” Richie echoes. “Stupid.”

“Colossally stupid,” Eddie agrees. “I don’t expect any less from you, idiot.”

“I hate you,” Richie tells him with heat, leaning in to kiss him again, deepening the kiss only slightly. Fire swirls in Eddie’s belly, smoke rising in his chest; he feels a pull, deep in his core, and he deepens the kiss again, shutting his eyes and sliding his hand up over the temple of his glasses. He pulls away and lifts Richie’s glasses off, and Richie takes the moment of distraction to kiss down Eddie’s cheek, over his chin, across his jaw, down his throat. Eddie tips his head, lets Richie kiss and bite wherever he wants, sighing.

“What do we do now?” Eddie asks, and Richie shrugs, bent in half to kiss along Eddie’s t-shirt-clad shoulder. “I feel like I’m better at fighting monsters than living a normal life.”

“Trauma’s a bitch,” Richie murmurs into his shoulder. He lifts his head again, straightens back up to his full height, and Eddie has to look up at him to make eye contact again. “We’ll find something better for you. Maybe you’d be good at being a Lyft driver or something.”

Eddie actually thinks about that for a second, then says, “Maybe.” He drops his hand from Richie’s face and looks back out over New York. “Actually, yeah, maybe. I’d be good at that, don’t you think?”

“Whatever you want, Spaghetti Head,” Richie tells him, dropping his head down again and bowing over Eddie to kiss him again, cradling his skull in his hands. Eddie kisses him back, then pulls away again.

“Don’t forget me when you’re rich and famous,” Eddie jokes. Richie strokes his thumb under Eddie’s eye, the pad and nail trailing across the smooth, thin skin there.

“Eds, my _ greatest _failure is that I’ve never been able to forget you,” Richie says back, and Eddie doesn’t even have a chance to act indignant before he’s being kissed again. He lets it happen for a moment before he has a realization and quickly removes his hands from the railing.

“Jesus Christ, this thing is probably filthy and you’re _ leaning _ on it, get _ off it, _ we gotta wash this and your clothes before we—” Eddie is saying, wiping his hands off on his pants, when Richie’s hand covers his mouth. Eddie bites his palm, then yelps, realizing he’s just bit Richie’s _ unwashed fucking hand _ that was _ just on the disgusting railing, _and has to fight out of Richie’s headlock when he yanks him in and twists an arm around his neck and shoulders.

“If the two of you are done with your kink negotiation, we could use some help unpacking _ your _shit,” Bill calls from inside their apartment. Richie drops a kiss on the top of Eddie’s head, then releases him. Eddie dusts himself off again, wiping his palms on his shirt, before he looks up at Richie, chin lifted.

“Go fuck yourself, Trashmouth,” he says, and Richie grins.

“Fucking _ gladly, _ Eds,” Richie replies, and kisses him again, and again, and _ again, _until an unpacked paperback comes flying out the open sliding door to knock Eddie in the back of the head. Bill’s standing on the other side of the threshold when they turn to see who threw it, and he grins for a second before he takes off at a run back into the apartment, Eddie and Richie hot on his heels.

“If you want to grow up and help us anytime soon, that’d be awesome!” Ben shouts at them as they pass, Beverly laughing beside him as she sorts through another box of books left beside an empty bookshelf. She pulls out the first book in the box, a black leather book with a green potion bubbling on the front of it. She flips it open and reads the title page: _ Necromancy. _ She flips to the hard inside cover and is about to flip to the back when small, messy handwriting in the upper left of the inside cover catches her eye. She turns back to the front and reads the note. 

> _To E. K. — _
> 
> _ Chapter seven was enlightening. Nobody wants a recipe without measurements, but you were always a little better at equations than me. _
> 
> _ — R. T. _

Beverly flips to chapter seven. The chapter title says “The Necromancer Summons His Lover” in faded lettering; above the chapter title is Richie’s handwriting again, messy and nearly illegible. She squints at it, trying to read it for a full minute before she finally figures out that it’s not one word, but two initials: 

> _R + E. _

Smiling, Beverly closes the book and slots it on the top shelf. Behind her, Ben tackles Eddie to the floor, and Mike has to yank Richie into a headlock to stop him from knocking them both over. Bill slides in, sweeping Richie out at the knees, and Richie topples over, bringing Mike and Bill down with him. Mike’s leg strikes out as he goes, catching Ben’s ankle and knocking him over into Eddie; Richie’s barely able to get his hands out to catch Eddie before he’s falling, too, the five of them going down in a tangle of limbs.

“Un-fucking-believable,” Bev comments, looking at the heap of them. She abandons the box of books and goes to them, slotting herself into the pile and nestling her head on Ben’s shoulder.

“Your _ foot _ is in my _ armpit,” _Richie snaps, shoving at Eddie’s ankle, and Eddie breaks the tangle to grab Richie by the shoulder, throwing him into the floor beside Bill, the two of them wrestling until Richie’s on his back, trying to grab Eddie’s hair to yank him off.

“Shut the _ fuck up, Trashmouth,” _Eddie laughs, ducking down to kiss him, and Beverly shuts her eyes, happy, for now.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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